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bless himself with. Pity these relations didn't come to the rescue before.”
    “They have only just become aware of the facts,” explained Poirot. “They have engaged me to come with all speed to this country and do everything possible.”
    Mr Scuttle leaned back, relaxing his business manner.
    “Don't know what you can do. I suppose there's insanity? A bit late in the day - but if you got hold of the big medicos. Of course I'm not up in these things myself.”
    Poirot leaned forward.
    “Monsieur, James Bentley worked here. You can tell me about him.”
    “Precious little to tell - precious little. He was one of our junior clerks. Nothing against him. Seemed a perfectly decent young fellow, quite conscientious and all that. But no idea of salesmanship. He just couldn't put a project over. That's no good in this job. If a client comes to us with a house he wants to sell, we're there to sell it for him. And if a client wants a house, we find him one. If it's a house in a lonely place with no amenities, we stress its antiquity, call it a period piece - and don't mention the plumbing! And if a house looks straight into the gasworks, we talk about amenities and facilities and don't mention the view. Hustle your client into it - that's what you're here to do. All sorts of little tricks there are. 'We advise you, madam, to make an immediate offer. There's a Member of Parliament who's very keen on it - very keen indeed. Going out to see it again this afternoon.' They fall for that every time - a Member of Parliament is always a good touch. Can't think why! No member ever lives away from his constituency. It's just the good solid sound of it.” He laughed suddenly, displayed gleaming dentures. “Psychology - that's what it is - just psychology.”
    Poirot leaped at the word.
    “Psychology. How right you are. I see that you are a judge of men.”
    “Not too bad. Not too bad,” said Mr Scuttle modestly.
    “So I ask you again what was your impression of James Bentley? Between ourselves - strictly between ourselves - you think he killed the old woman?”
    Scuttle stared.
    “Of course.”
    “And you think, too, that it was a likely thing for him to do - psychologically speaking?”
    “Well - if you put it like that - no, not really. Shouldn't have thought he ha'd the guts. Tell you what, if you ask me, he was barmy. Put it that way, and it works. Always a bit soft in the head, and what with being out of a job and worrying and all that, he just went right over the edge.”
    “You had no special reason for discharging him?”
    Scuttle shook his head.
    “Bad time of year. Staff hadn't enough to do. We sacked the one who was less competent. That was Bentley. Always would be, I expect. Gave him a good reference and all that. He didn't get another job, though. No pep. Made bad impression on people.”
    It always came back to that, Poirot thought, as he left the office. James Bentley made a bad impression on people. He took comfort in considering various murderers he had known whom most people had found full of charm.

Mrs McGinty's Dead
    II
    “Excuse me, do you mind if I sit down here and talk to you for a moment?”
    Poirot, ensconced at a small table in the Blue Cat, looked up from the menu he was studying with a start. It was rather dark in the Blue Cat, which specialised in an old-world effect of oak and leaded panes, but the young woman who had just sat down opposite to him stood out brightly from her dark background.
    She had determinedly golden hair, and was wearing an electric blue jumper suit. Moreover, Hercule Poirot was conscious of having noticed her somewhere only a short time previously.
    She went on:
    “I couldn't help, you see, hearing something of what you were saying to Mr Scuttle.”
    Poirot nodded. He had realised that the partitions in the offices of Breather & Scuttle were made for convenience rather than privacy. That had not worried him, since it was chiefly publicity that he desired.
    “You were